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Tuesday, November 22, 2016

NaNoWriMo 2016: Write What You Know, Part 15

This is my first draft for NaNoWriMo 2016 novel Write What You Know. It's only a rough draft with very minimal editing and will, more than likely, contain, typos, grammatical errors, plot holes, or conflicting descriptions. It also includes notes to myself and excerpts from the novel the MC is writing that I try to indicate through various formatting that doesn't always translate well with my limited html skills. Furthermore, this particular novel is... there's no delicate way to put this... this novel is fucked up. So, especially in this rough draft crazed sort of NaNoWriMo way of writing, it may be difficult to read or follow. I'm still posting it here because I want to shed more light on the process of writing to encourage and inspire other writers or readers who are interested. To learn more about this project, or my daily NaNoWriMo postings, please read Day 1-7.

“THere’s nothing here.” He said to no one hear. “There’s nothing fucking here.” He said louder.

In the task force room he had every single piece of evidence laid out on every surface. Every useless witness statements, every useless picture. Every useless autopsy report. The only thing any of these victims had in common was that nobody knew what they were doing or who they were with just before the murders. Bronson had the privilege of being killed in the last place anyone expected to find him and Clara Daily, their most recent victim was the first to be killed in her own home. And there was nothing else of note. Gender, race, ages, were all over the place.

The only thing that connected them was that they were humans who were once alive. They didn’t even die with the same violence. Especially the last victim. Clara wasn’t like any of the other ones.

First off, she wasn’t high risk. She lived and worked in good neighborhoods, had no history of arrests, or drug use. People noticed she was missing, discovered hours, instead of days after her murder. Her place wasn’t smeared in blood like some animal rolled around all in it like a pig in shit. Dickhead detective was right, all her organs were still inside of her even though the cavity, her torso was wide open from to chin. And the cuts, the stabbing and slicing was done cleanly, not frenzied. Almost surgical, like it was done with care.

In fact the whole scene looked liked it was staged with care. Two wine glasses were in the bedroom. Two coffee cups were on the breakfast bar. There was one cigarette in a dish kissed with the bright red lipstick that was on one of each of the drinking vessels. The blood pool around her was neat and pristine, like someone, had simple watched it happen and disturbed nothing afterwards. Clara’s arms were folded neatly over her open stomach. Her hair was brushed away from her face and her eyes were open. Not wide open in fear or terror, just open like she lied down to look up out of the sky light to watch the stars. If it wasn’t for the blood and the fact that there were other people around him while he was there, he almost wanted to lie down next to her, hold her hand and tell her everything was okay now. She was okay now.

He looked at her picture while he indulged in his ridiculous out of character day dream. With her picture was a few biographical notes typed up by one of the better detectives on the task force. He was still imagining laying next to her, this time the blood was there, warm and pooling around them both, he held her hand tighter. It’ll all be over soon. The pain, everything will end , soon.
Something finally drew him away from what was now not just out of character but pretty damn morbid at this point. Something on the info sheet stapled to the corner of the picture. He focused on it, something important. It was something about where she worked.

Piano player, she was a piano player, played bars all over town but last night, last night she played someplace. He ripped the notes from the picture. Last night she worked at a hotel.
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Despite Nikki’s objections, Stella was right. The bath, the clean linens, which actually felt softer more luxurious than what she had before, even the air felt clean; all of it was refreshing, bracing, but also relaxing. She fell asleep faster and woke up clearer than she had since coming to New York.

Stella brought her breakfast and coffee from one her favorite diners and helped her pack up her bags. She took care of checkout too. It was the smoothest morning she’d had since starting the trip. Christie was optimistic for the first time in months. When she got to the lobby doors though, she knew it wasn’t going to last. He was coming in as she was going out.

“Leaving town, Ms. Fields?”

“Detective. . .Ryan?”

“O’Ryan, you can call me Wes.”

“Ok, Wes, I’m not feeling well. Going home to recoup.”

“And home is?”

“Virginia, couple of hours outside of D.C.”

“Are you going to the airport then?”

“Grand Central, actually, I can do more writing on a train.”

“I’m sorry I have to throw a wrench into your plans but I have some more questions for you. This time I’d like to ask them down at the station.”

”I’m sorry what’s going on here?” Stella was finished checking out.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Stella McGillcrest, Ms. Fields agent, is there something I can help you with?”

“No, m’am. I’m just going to take Ms. Fields here in for some questioning, she’s not under arrest. We’ve already talked, there’s only a few more things I’d like to clear up, and then she can go on with her day.”

Christie looked back and forth between the two lie a dog at a tennis match. More people talking about her instead of to her around her like she wasn’t even there. She was there right?

“I’m sorry we’re on the way to catch a train. I don’t under . . . If she’s not under arrest she doesn’t have to go with you. Come on, Christie.”

“Either she co-operates or I arrest but she is coming to the police station.”

He actually took her elbow like she was a child who needed help crossing the street. The hum of the crowd was starting to worm it’s way into her ear and like that was some sort of audible invitation.

Shove her, punch him and then haul ass to the first cab you see.

Shut up, I’m not running away. I’ll just. . .

Now Stella took her other elbow, actually linked it with hers like they were school girls in braids about to skip out of that joint.

“She’s not going anywhere without an attorney and if you have questions, you can call or visit her at her home. Once she’s arrived there after her train journey and her still with her attorney present. Christie, you talked to the cops without telling me? Let’s go.”

“I mean, I . . .”

“All right, Christie Fields, I am placing you under arrest.”

And that’s the story of how Christie Fields got arrested in a hotel lobby and made the front page of the newspaper the next day.
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For the first time in his career, Wes thought there should be a special room in a police station, maybe in a basement, that was specifically designed for lead detectives working high profile cases where they could go and punch the shit out inanimate objects when they cases got turned into shit-shows because right now he could use some beer bottles to throw at a wall or trash can he could kick around for a rounds.

Fields’ agent was stressing out some of the lower orders basically threatening to sue anyone who walked in front of her when she wasn’t on the phone with various law firm secretaries. The woman herself was in an interrogation room with a sergeant explain her rights and trying to convince her it was in her best interest to waive them.

And O’Ryan was trying to figure out he could explain to his lieutenant that he’d arrested a minor celebrity because he’d botched the first interview and then got in a pissing match with her agent. At this point he had no real idea of whether or not Christie had committed the crimes or not, the evidence, what he had, was highly suggestive but then again it wasn’t much. He basically only had a prayer.

A prayer that she actually did it. Because if she didn’t, this shit-show would graduate to cluster fuck and he could kiss any chance of advancement in his career good-bye.

He could really use that room right now. He’d even be willing to pay out of pocket for it.
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The interrogation room looked very different from what you saw on tv. They’d been questioned by police before, even spent a few nights in jail, a month or two in juvie, a week in county once but never taken all the way to an interrogation room. It was small and clean and plain. Plain walls, plain floor, a plan table and plain chairs. It smelt like stale air and, most surprisingly, was very quiet. Walking through processing was loud as fuck with the basic noise of an office combined with all sorts of criminal elements and victim sobbing, it was an aural assault. But aside from the meek sergeant trying to talk her into signing a waiver, the interrogation room was like being wrapped up in a cloud. Like a ripped from page 86 of the office supply catalogue cloud.

As for listening to the Rodriguez, the name on her tag, she wasn’t. She was too busy arguing with Nikki, as per usual.

Now, look what you’ve gotten yourself into.

Me? I didn’t do anything, this is obviously your fault. Every time we’re in a police station, it’s your fault. You just usually tell me what you did before this point.

Bitch, I’m telling you, I didn’t do shit. This is on you.

I hate you.

Mutual but I’m telling you I had nothing to do with this. I’ve been to busy taking care of us to start shit up. It’s actually been pretty dull for me lately. When we get out of here, I might actually go start a fight. For fun.

No, when we get out of here, we’re going home and actually doing some real work.

If you want out of here, I suggests we start talking to Detective cutiepie instead of this paperwork bitch. He’s the boss and the only one who can expedite this nonsense.